A/N: Your reviews were all wonderful, thank you so much. I know I promised an update at 67 reviews, but last week was so rough and stuff that really emotionally compromised me came up and I found that I couldn't concentrate on writing most of the time. Still, your reviews were so lovely to read and really lifted my spirits. Be assured that I haven't abandoned this story!

Warning for Erik's sassiness. I cannot handle how sassy he is in this chapter.

Unbeta'd (as usual) and written in the middle of the night.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, The Enemy, belongs to Mumford and Sons.

But I came and I was nothing.

And time will give us nothing.

So why did you choose to lean on

A man you knew was falling?

Present Day

Christine stayed in the room for hours.

She could not shake his image from her mind—both his physical visage and the agony reflected in his golden orbs. His twisted cheek, distorted eyebrow, skin cut so cleanly that they resembled slits. Then, the reminder of perfection: half of a straight nose, a sleek, arched brow, unmarred flesh. Lips that once never hesitated to kiss her, to trace her skin and learn her body. Hands that were once confident in reaching out for her, holding her close to him. Golden eyes that once shone with a contented happiness. They haunted her now; taunted her with slithering accusations against her judgement, painful pleas for her acceptance.

You're a shallow, selfish human being, a voice in her mind hissed. Christine couldn't find the strength to defend herself against it.

Because truly—how could she? She had known that he was suffering, seen the bandages wrapped around his face. It was idiotic of her not to make the connection between the strips of gauze and the horrific mess that must have been beneath it. She should have expected it, should have been more prepared to see something ghastly, terrible, unthinkable, and should have immediately accepted him anyway.

But how could she have prepared herself when half his face was replaced—no, not replaced, but torn, skinned—to reveal stretched ligaments, deranged cavity, the living, breathing visual of what lay between skin and bone?

Christine shut her eyes tightly, the wall thudding as she let her head fall back against it. Thinking about his face no longer brought about nausea, but she still felt a certain uneasiness, a strange, sick feeling in her stomach. She wanted to scream, to cry and shout and rip open her throat and let her vocal chords loose and free until her voice grew hoarse. She despaired for him, she ached for him, she felt anger for him. Anger for all he had been through, anger that she had not been there for him, anger that someone had done this to him. Because this was not the result of a diffused bomb, an accidental flame. She knew enough to realise that this had been done to him, and the thought that someone had dared harm her husband in such a way made her bristle with fury, cower with fear, weep with frustration.

But then she would remember her reaction to seeing his face—her cry of fear, her pitiful sobs, her inability to see beyond his visage—and cringe with disgust at herself. For months, he had been trying to hide this from her, had been stoic and unreadable and distant. She had torn at those defenses without his consent, caught sight of his injury without his approval. And judging by his reaction when he had ripped himself away from her only moments ago, she had reacted just as he thought she would have: negatively and dejecting.

She still remembered seeing the frantic dismay in his eyes, the look of a man completely and utterly shattered when he had lifted his face to the mirror for the first time. Caught by surprise and shock at the sight of her wide eyes staring through him, frustrated by his helplessness even as he mourned over his loss. Broken by her expression, her disgust, her revulsion.

It had only taken her a look—one look—for her to know this, the flurry of confusing, engulfing emotions that gripped his mind. And still, she had shunned him, had made him feel unwanted and hideous.

She hated herself for it.

So, like the coward she was, she had holed herself up in her room, refusing to face him once more. She feared his disappointment, his dismay—perhaps even his hopelessness. She didn't want to see him empty, deathless—a void of pointlessness. A shell of the man he once used to be, the man she had fallen in love with.

This man who was with her now was foreign, unidentifiable. Unpredictable.

She secretly feared that he might finally think that he needed to leave her, that he didn't want her anymore because she couldn't accept him, because he deserved so much more than what she was giving him.

It was two in the afternoon when she finally emerged from the bedroom. Now clad in a soft sweater and cotton shorts, she padded across the silent hallway in woollen socks, comfortable and warm over her feet. Her breaths came out in soft wisps, light and airy as she shuffled down the hall. It was quiet—much too quiet. The air seemed chillier despite the growing warmth that came as winter slowly faded, and she instinctively hugged arms around her chest, comforting herself the best she could. She felt timid, tentative. Unwilling to breach his privacy even if it wasn't his to claim, not in this home they shared together.

But too many things had changed, and Christine found herself thinking about how their space had slowly become his and hers. Another drawn line, another barrier separating them.

All too soon, she emerged the turning of the hallway—the one that led to their living room. The room with the sofa and coffee table, the room Erik had inhabited for the past few months. He was probably in there. She could picture him already: either with his eyes scrunched shut, hands covering his face, or simply sitting with a straight, rigid back, staring out the window with a blank, aimless expression. She closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to calm her frantic heart, to wet her suddenly dry throat.

You will apologise to him, she told herself firmly. You have no right to feel scared, to act like this when he's the one hurt here. For once, think about someone other than yourself, Christine.

Her own thoughts were like a slap to her face, and, swallowing down her—fear? Humiliation? Whatever it was that she felt—she called out tentatively.

"Erik?"

No answer.

Silence greeted her, thick and deafening. There was no sudden shuffle of surprise, nothing to notify her that she was there. The air was still. It sent a cold shiver down her spine, one that made her tighten her grip around her arms, wanting to ward off the sudden unpleasant chill that overtook her.

Her arms were not long enough, not comforting enough. Oh, what she wouldn't give to feel his arms around her instead.

The thought gave her a small degree of uncertain comfort.

Christine shook her head, unwilling to think such negative thoughts about her husband. It's just Erik, she told herself firmly. Just Erik, your husband, the man you love. His appearance shouldn't matter to you.

Clearing her throat, she tried again. "Erik? Where are you?"

The lack of an answer gave her a worried curiosity, replacing the fear lodged in her throat. She found it in herself to venture forwards, to cross into the living room. Her socks barely made any sound against the carpeted floor as she walked. With her breath suspended in her chest, she curled fingers around the edge of the wall that would reveal the next room, heart thudding wildly as she stepped forwards.

The sofa was made, the blankets folded neatly by the side. The bookshelf was made, novels littering the rows in characteristic neatness. A glass of water sat quietly by the coffee table, full and untouched. Nothing was out of place.

Christine let out her breath, her heart stopping at the sight. A rising anxiety replaced her fear, and she uncrossed her arms, letting them fall to her sides. A multitude of questions attacked her thoughts, loud and insistent.

Where is he? they demanded.

Her inability to come up with an answer brought about a round of panic.

Swallowing, she looked around the room, hoping that he was merely jesting with her, hoping that he would emerge from the kitchen or bathroom or even behind the bloody sofa. "Erik, please," she tried, forehead creasing with worry. "I'm sorry. I just want to talk to you."

No reply. She couldn't hear him anywhere.

The worry was creeping up her throat now, thick and uncomfortable. Her stomach knotted in distress, a flood of uncertainty attacking her veins. She froze for a moment, shock settling in her bones that he was ignoring this way, or worse—that he might not be here.

Christine bolted around the flat, checking the kitchen, bathroom, coat room, music room. She scoured every nook and cranny, glancing out of windows, checking their tiny excuse for a balcony, venturing back into her room even if logic reminded her that he had left it when she pushed him away. She was desperate to find him and his bandaged face, no matter if he was crying or still and emotionless. Hell, at this point she couldn't find it in herself to care if his face might be covered or not—it didn't matter. His face didn't matter, his twisted skin didn't matter, none of it mattered if it meant she couldn't have him.

Once she had scoured the whole flat, Christine realised that he simply was not here.

He's not here.

He left.

The realisation hit her with full force, a blow that punctured her stomach, left her gasping for breath. Suddenly, the air around her seemed to thin, denying her oxygen. Yes, she had known that she had been unfair to him, had misunderstood and pushed away his pain dismissively. In her position as a spouse, she had completely disregarded their vows and focused on her own frustration, her own struggles rather than his.

The consequences of her actions were worse than she could have ever imagined.

Instead of pain, she felt numb. He had not taken anything—she was sure of it. He had not ventured into their bedroom to gather his clothes as per usual, had not packed any of his supplies in the bathroom. The only thing missing was his coat, the hanger bare and naked without the black velvet draping over it.

He has to come back, she reasoned with herself desperately. He can't just leave without taking anything of his. He wouldn't just leave—not without an explanation, without a goodbye.

And yet somehow, she remembered that this Erik was someone completely foreign to her, changed by the effects of war, scarred by the worst of humanity. She didn't know who he was, what he would do or would not do—he was a mystery to her. She couldn't know if he had abandoned her for good, or simply gone out to take a walk.

Go outside even if he hadn't been out since he had come back? a doubtful voice questioned unhelpfully. Christine let out a shaky breath, pressing her lips together to conceal her sob.

"Okay," she exhaled, fighting to remain calm. There was nothing much she could do, she knew. He could be anywhere at the moment. The same helplessness she had once felt upon coming home to find the flat empty gripped her once again, reminding her of the fear she had felt at the time that he might have gone over his limit, that he was standing by a bridge overlooking the river, that he had given up.

And it was not absurd to believe that she might have pushed him over the edge, this time around.

Closing her eyes, Christine threaded her fingers together and brought them to her lips, a voiceless prayer sounding from trembling breaths. It took her a while to realise that she was speaking, whispering a string of, "Please, please, please," over and over again.

The empty flat only responded with silence.

August 1980

His head whipped to the side from the blow across his cheek. With an uncomfortable grimace, Erik lifted a hand to his jaw, flexing it under his fingertips. It felt a little sore, but not broken.

He was aching all over. The night had been spent most uncomfortably with wrists tied to the pole of a tent, the sound of shifting coming from its inhabitant disrupting his sleep; it seemed that Nadir Khan was as light a sleeper as he was. He had tried the knots, using his teeth, strength, toes, even—but it was far too tight, far too expertly knotted that he knew it would not relent. It was frustrating and—dare he admit it?—downright embarrassing to feel such incompetence, to realise that in this aspect, he was completely at their mercy.

It was even more humiliating to think that the aspect that had utterly defeated him was a simple rope tied so intricately that it would not budge. The Phantom, brought down by binds.

Still, he could not wither away in discomfort. So Erik had tried to make do with what he could, knowing that he needed to preserve his strength for the next day. They would not kill him in his sleep—that much, he was sure of. If they wanted to kill him, they would have done so already.

So with weapons stripped from his form, wrists bound in complicated knots and head leaning against the pole, Erik dozed into an awkward, light sleep.

The sound of tents flapping had instantly woken him. Day had just broken, sunlight creeping in through the shade of trees and leaves, spotting the ground with strips of light. Soldiers had begun emerging from their domains, some yawning and half-asleep, some fully dressed and alert. There was not much he could do apart from lean against the tent and assume the most haughty expression he could manage, unwilling to notify his captors of his discomfort. He would not relent, would not allow them to believe that he was at their mercy, even if he was. And when the two men from the night before had approached to unbind his wrists and roughly hoisted him to his feet, Erik followed with a proud and regal step, determined to face whatever they had in store for him.

It seemed, however, that their hospitality towards guests were limited to snarling, hitting and questioning.

Erik turned his head back to face the General with a stoic, cool expression. Jalil had returned to deal with him personally, using an abandoned tent as their interrogation spot. The man was sweating under the scorching heat, magnified by the stuffiness of the tent. His beard was beaded with sweat, and from his position tied to the chair Erik could smell his foul odour. His darkened, charcoal eyes gleamed with maliciousness, streaked with questioning intent. The two men who had escorted him here stood silently by the entrance of the tent, still and stoic, watching with a hardened silence.

Jalil straightened before him, bulky arms folding across his chest as he exhaled harshly. "Stubborn, aren't you?" he observed in a spitting tone, lips curled into a snarl.

Erik pursed his lips, hand twitching uncomfortably under the cord freshly bound around his wrists, stretched so that his arms draped over the back of the chair. "I assume that you do know that you are wasting your time interrogating me," he said snidely, fixing the man a glare. "The men who do often find themselves stuck in... unfortunate situations, afterwards."

The General stared at him, his lips twisted into an unamused smile. "The only man I see stuck in an unfortunate situation is you, my friend."

"For the moment."

The daring answer was met with another blow, this one aimed at his jaw. Jalil may have looked anything but threatening—at least, to someone as lethal as Erik—but there was no denying that his strength was sound. Jaw throbbing, head whipped to the side from the impact, Erik clenched his teeth as he stared at the grimy floor mat. There was a faint taste of blood within his mouth. He wasn't entirely sure if it was due to him accidentally biting the inside of his cheek or if his mouth had suffered damage from the hit. He shifted in his seat, the skin of his arms scraping the wood of the chair he was strapped to uncomfortably.

Jalil let out a dry chuckle above him. "I would have thought you'd have some more fight in you, Phantom," he sneered, wearing a poisonous smirk.

Still facing the floor of the tent, Erik promptly spat out the blood from his mouth before turning his head once more to face the General. "I see no reason to put up a fight," he responded, struggling to keep the rise and fall of his chest steady as he fought back his distaste for the man. It was effective in wiping the smirk off Jalil's face, he noted triumphantly.

He was quick to anger, Erik observed. This man was a contrast to the one who had greeted him the night before; no fake joviality, no malicious intent hidden behind a wide smile. No: this man was ruthless, a master of violence and a slave to his temper. His tangled beard shone with sweat, his thorax heaving with quick, sharp breaths. If it were possible, it seemed as if his murky eyes had darkened to a blacker shade, narrowing to slits. It was obvious to anyone that he was irked. Erik had easily handled men like him before, and was confident that he would be able to handle Jalil now. He would have to be patient, however; there were far too many men in the camp, and they would notice should he strike down their General.

He would need to wait for an opportune moment to rile Jalil up, to play him like he had played countless others. Ensure that he was a master of everyone around him before he struck, no matter how long it took.

And Erik was nothing if not patient.

"Enough," Jalil snarled, and Erik hid a smirk at his obvious irritation. He leaned forwards, spine curling inwards in his movements, leaden eyes trained on golden ones. Erik bit back a grimace at the smell of the man; he must not have cleaned himself in the morning, though why anyone would neglect their personal hygiene when there was a water source nearby was a mystery. Unlike Erik, he had the option of washing.

His internal tirade was interrupted by the General's fingers suddenly shooting forwards, calloused fingers tightly grasping painfully at his recently abused jaw. Erik bit back a grimace, mind instructing body to lift his chin up, both to avoid Jalil and to maintain his dignity. Bared teeth growled at him. "I would like to do this quickly, Phantom," Jalil hissed, snarling mouth inches away from his face. Fingers tightened their grip on his jaw, squeezing the bruise that must have surely formed from punches and surely creating new ones in the process. The pain was uncomfortable, but not unbearable; his unfocused mind could still remember that his legs were unbound, that he could easily lift a thigh and knee the Afghan in his most tender spot.

But the two guards were still in the tent, stationed stoically by the entrance, and his wrists were still bound. They would easily be able to overpower him in his struggle to free himself.

So Erik merely gritted his teeth and let the man mishandle him, containing his anger within his chest. Jalil was glaring at him, and he felt the faint tickle of wiry beard brushing his jaw.

"Your location," Jalil hissed, tightening his grip. Erik bit back a scowl.

"Why, General, I would have thought you would notice a Soviet in your camp."

Another snarl, a tightened hold. "The location of the Red Army. Tell me where they are."

"Ah—you should have made that clear, before."

"Mother fucker—"

"Language, General."

Jalil tore away from him, letting out a disgruntled curse in Farsi as he ran exasperated fingers through thinning hair. He looked beyond incensed, Erik noted with a concealed smirk. Oh yes, playing him would be simple. Very simple.

At that moment, a clean-shaven young man ducked into the tent, clad in green, camouflaged attire. He must have been taken aback at the sight that greeted him, however, for he did a double take as he took in the annoyed General, the pale man tied to a chair. From his restrained position, Erik noticed his nervous demeanour, fear hidden by a throbbing excitement to do something worth recognition. It was a familiar look: he saw it in the boys who were sent out to war.

It had only ever gotten them killed.

Self-consciously, the young man reached for the military cap upon his head and nodded apprehensively at the standing General.

"The men are ready, sir," he stated warily. An awkward hand reached for the holster by his belt, wanting for something to do with empty fingers.

Jalil turned away from Erik for a moment, pausing in his movements. For a moment he stood, freezing in a thoughtful, almost contemplative position. A hand came up to scratch at his wiry beard, stroking with consideration. Then, as swiftly as he had done the night before, the same hand whipped forwards in a fist and delivered a resounding blow to the roped man's face, the most forceful strike yet. Erik felt his head whip to the side once again, and if he were not taken by surprise from the hit he would have rolled his eyes; did the man not consider hitting him anywhere else? And yet, he saw the true intention behind the strike: his forehead pounded painfully, blood rushing loudly in his ears, and his cheekbone felt uncomfortably sore from being struck in the same place so many times.

"We will continue this discussion tomorrow, my friend," Jalil said gruffly, the warning evident in his tone. Then he abruptly turned away and strode towards the entrance, ducking below the flaps and disappearing from the tent. The younger soldier followed him hurriedly, avoiding Erik's gaze.

Instantly, the two guards began to move towards Erik, none too gently tugging at the rope binding his wrists. He groaned as they roughly pulled him to his feet, shoving him forwards. The light shirt he wore stuck to his clammy chest, the scorching heat striking him as they led him back outside. He grimaced at his sweaty form, his soiled clothes.

Christine would surely have yelled at him to take a shower by now. The thought sent a sharp ache to his chest, empty and unfulfilled.

Thoroughly missing his wife, Erik tilted his head as best as he could without straining his injured jaw, leaning backwards a little to catch the ears of his captors. "I don't suppose you could supply me with a bucket of water, could you?" he requested calmly, suspecting they would not respond accordingly.

He was right; their answer was simply to push him forwards so that he stumbled a little, caught off balance. Pursing his lips together, he grudgingly kept walking and muttered to himself, "Thought not."

The rest of the day had passed by uneventfully. The camp was empty when the guards had taken him back outside, the grounds silent and still. Only a few remained, spending their time bustling around the camp, washing filthy undershirts, performing prayers when the time came about to do so. It was odd; Erik knew that they were not aware of the Soviet army's location, so they could not have been hunting them down. He idly wondered if they were mapping out the terrain, if they passed time by familiarising themselves with the forest, the mountains. It was disheartening to conclude that such a move was very, impossibly logical of them. If only his own army had the brains to do the same.

The tent they had tied him to for the previous night was empty; its inhabitant—Nadir Khan—must have followed the other soldiers on their mysterious expedition. Erik had to admit relief, though, when the guards did not instantly strap him to the tent pole once more. Instead, they sat him down by a large boulder, each taking a turn to watch him carefully as the other went off to tend to themselves.

Even though the heat was—thankfully—not as unbearable as it had been earlier in the month, Erik still found himself grateful when nightfall came. The soldiers began to return when the sun started drooping in the sky, bathing the camp in a cool, dim glow. The glimmer of sunset painted a peaceful picture of men tiredly returning to their tents, the azan ringing clearly in the air as they emerged in lighter clothing to perform their prayer. White caps sat upon their heads, a direct contrast to their darkened clothes. A warm fire had been lit, its smoke gently wafting through the cool night air. Erik thought that it would have been an ideal camping spot if not for the fact that he was being held there against his will.

If he had not already spent the better half of a month studying them, he would have taken in every routine, every prayer, every conversation with a greedy ear. There was the strange beauty of listening to their du'a, the magnificence of syllables rolling off their expert tongues, foreign and lyrical in nature. He did not feel a pull towards it the way he assumed they—the more religious of the lot—did, but he understood the peace of listening to a prayer. It was a huge change to the harsh sounds of Farsi; speaking seemed unattractive in comparison to prayer.

The soldiers did not disclose any information now that he was amongst their number, nor did he expect them to. It was calming, almost, to watch them without the paranoia of being watched. He could feel Jalil's hard stare on the back of his head as he ate the food given to him, burning and stern, as if expecting him to disrupt their rest, to interrupt the ease that had settled over the soldiers after a long day of what he assumed to be hiking. And yet Erik couldn't find it in himself to be spiteful to these men—these men who were merely boys, the same youthful innocence he had seen amongst the soldiers of the Red Army reflected upon their faces.

And despite his intellect, his keen observation of people and culture, Erik found himself wondering why he never recognised the similarities between the two armies.

Nadir Khan was nowhere to be found when the guards escorted him back to his tent, binding him once more to the pole. Their movements were not as rough, this time; he assumed that they too were tired from the obvious fatigue reverberating from their forms. And for a moment he thought of what it would be like with Christine beside him, what she would say if she saw soldiers bidding each other goodnight and disappearing into their tents, as if there was nothing remotely life-threatening about the situation they were in.

The thought was butchered from his mind as quickly as it had come. Christine would never be put into a situation like this, not as long as he was living. And, if he were dead, then he would haunt the people who dared abuse her until they released her.

He wondered how he would cope without her if he were to die. For surely, there was a realm beyond death—perhaps aimless wandering, perhaps a kingdom of fire. He had often surmised that he was fit for the heat of hell, that whatever happened after death, he deserved the worst of it. And yet, the thought that he would never be able to see Christine again, never be able to touch her, was excruciating agony. The sole reason he kept fighting in this war, that he completed each task as efficiently as he could was because he knew that every step towards the defeat of the enemy brought him closer to seeing her again.

There, leaning against the thin pole in the dark of the night, Erik closed his eyes and pictured his wife in mind. He painted her face, first; soft and defined, apple cheeks and a curved nose, bottom lip that was thicker than the top. He outlined her eyes—downturned and wide, thick lashes framing electric blue. The slight arch of her eyebrow, the paleness of her smooth skin. And then her curls—wild and brown, tousled without order, flowing from forehead to chest. He saw her body in his mind: slight and lean, a dancer's build toning her thighs, her arms, her stomach. Her curves that both captivated him with awe and arousal. She was smiling at him—his Christine. He ached for her with his mind, his body, his voice, his heart.

He vowed to return to her soon.

He must have fallen asleep whilst lost in his thoughts, however, for it was dawn when he woke. Something was shaking him, rousing him from the most pleasant sleep he'd had in months. The sweet ecstasy of Christine faded as his ears registered the sounds of crickets, the faint rustle of flapping, the distant rush of water. Warm air brushed at his cheek, hot and humid, and he remembered that he was not with his wife but here, held captive by the men of his enemy. A sharp ache began to make itself known to him, his jaw and cheek throbbing painfully, thighs and back and arms uncomfortably sore from leaning against the thin pole as he slowly gained consciousness. He let out a groan of irritation, unwilling to open his eyes yet knowing he must do so.

And then he shot awake when he remembered where he was, golden eyes snapping open and landing on the image of a tanned, frowning man crouching beside him.

Erik blinked and the man—Nadir Khan, his waking mind reminded him—immediately straightened, though he didn't rise to his full height. His cropped hair was mussed from sleep, circles under his eyes dark and drooping. "I apologise," he said, and Erik blinked once more at his courtesy, "but I thought you might appreciate me waking you rather than... them."

His lips curved into a faint smile, unsure and hesitant, and his hazel eyes blinked as they met his, open and honest. Erik uncomfortably shifted away from the man, taken aback by his consideration. He knew these men—these men who befriended their captives, who made them believe in hope once more before it was violently ripped away.

From his hesitance and unsure kindness, Nadir Khan seemed like the kind of man who would pull such a stunt.

Erik grunted, straightening against the pole he was tied to. "Will you be watching over me today, then?" he questioned roughly, refusing to meet the other man's eyes.

Khan must have recognised his unfriendly tone, however, for he dropped the hands that seemed to reach out for him and rose to his feet. "Not exactly," he mused above Erik, sounding detached and professional once more. "We all will be."

Erik frowned, looking up at the man in surprise. "What?"

The Afghan merely shrugged and said, "We are moving camps. I hope you've had a good sleep, because we'll be doing a lot of walking today. And knowing Jalil, you will surely be blindfolded."

Khan's words proved themselves true: as soon as Jalil had emerged from his tent, he had barked orders at the guards to hoist Erik to his feet and wrap a strip of cloth around his eyes. The General seemed jovial and lighthearted once more, greeting him with a cheery, "Morning, my friend!" and calling out for the others to wake. If he did not have the blindfold over his eyes, Erik knew that he would have seen the man smiling widely, teeth gleaming in the sunlight. Judging from the exasperated huffs and sighs that followed, the other soldiers were not as delighted by the upcoming walk.

Their journey began shortly, after a young-sounding voice (Erik assumed it was the same soldier who had witnessed the scene of his 'interrogation') called out that nothing was left behind. Stripped of his sight, Erik listened to the sounds of shuffling, leaves crunching beneath large boots as they trudged forwards. He felt the occasional jab at back, from who he assumed to be one of the two guards assigned to watch him. It was no use causing a scene amongst such a large group, he knew, so Erik grudgingly walked forwards, using boot to nudge at fallen twigs and roots, listening to the sound of voices to ensure that he was heading in the right direction.

It was impossible to discern where they were heading. Forests and mountainous areas were already foreign to him, but now that he relied merely on scent and sound and touch, he could hardly make out where they were going. There was no significant root that felt strange under his boots, no rush of water to signify that they were nearing another river. There was just the walk forwards.

The air was cool by the time they began to slow in their steps. Erik shifted for the thousandth time against the bindings holding his wrists together, trying to tug them away to no avail. For all the strength he possessed, he could not defeat a simple piece of rope.

It was embarrassing.

All around him, soldiers sighed in relief. Bags and rifles and knapsacks thudded to the ground as the men began to make camp, the sound of tent material scraping against the casing as they pulled the essentials out of their bags. Erik listened to the scraping of rock against rock, the light thud of wood tossed to the ground, the barked orders in sharp Farsi. It was busy, yet organised.

His thoughts were diverted as he felt someone move behind him, human presence clear and hot, the rasp of breath against his neck. He clenched his teeth as hands began to reach up to his head, bracing himself for an attack—

And felt the blindfold drop from his eyes, draping around his neck like a scarf. The sudden exposure to light—although dim, now, since it was evening—was blinding after only seeing darkness the entire day. It took a moment for him to readjust, the scene before him looking blurry and unreal, his eyes squinting from the effort as he struggled to focus.

The camp looked exactly like the old one: tents set up all around, uneven ground beneath his feet, trees bordering them, a source of protection against the outside. Soldiers were rushing about everywhere, busying themselves with tasks and chores. A fire was being set up in the middle of the field by two younger men; an older, gruff-looking one stood towards the side, chopping at wood with a sickle. Their voices melded into a buzz of Farsi, quick and concentrated and labouring.

He thought he might have felt his heart drop into his stomach.

The Soviets, he knew, were not skilled in their tracking skills. It was why they had brought him here in the first place, why they sought his expertise. Mapping out the land, pondering over possible locations and bases—it had all landed onto Erik's capable shoulders, pushed onto him by eager generals who were unfamiliar with his craft. He had done all the work, had slaved over every possibility.

They would not be able to find this camp, not without him.

The thought made him bristle with annoyance. How utterly incompetent of them, how foolish. Did they not contemplate the danger that he might be compromised? How were they to track down their enemy now?

His internal tirade was interrupted by the feel of calloused hands grabbing at his arm, dragging him towards a tent at the edge of the camp. Erik grudgingly followed, but not without putting up a struggle, spitting at his captors to give him the decency to at least walk on his own.

When he emerged, his skin was discoloured. Purple bloomed on the flesh of his bicep, the same bicep being gripped by one of his guards as they roughly pushed him forwards. The uneven ground caused him to stumble a little, and he winced at the sharp pain in his stomach, where Jalil had been generous in delivering blows. His question rang in Erik's mind as he staggered forwards, clear and insistent.

"Where are they, Phantom? Where is your army? If they are hiding amongst us—"

"General, you have just moved camps. How would they know where to find you?"

"They could have followed!"

"If they had, you would be dead by now."

Jalil had not been too pleased with his answer; the ache in his torso was proof of that.

Instead of leading him to a tent this time, they began to guide him towards a tall tree. It had a wide trunk, but Erik grimaced at the sight of the unruly roots littering the ground. They were sharp and protruding—surely uncomfortable, but he would make do with what he had. It was better than sleeping against a thin pole, anyway.

He settled against the tree, sighing tiredly as the guards began to tie a rope around his torso, linking him to the trunk. It was late, however, and he was too exhausted to complain, so he remained silent while they performed their task, shifting to find a more comfortable position as they did so. They left him shortly after, retreating to their own tents as the camp began to quiet around them, the soldiers clearly weary from the events of the day.

He only realised that he had begun to doze off as well when he felt the hand shaking his shoulder, then the trickle of cool, blessed water against his chapped lips. Half-conscious, he parted his mouth to consume the liquid, moistening his dry tongue and parched throat. He swallowed until there was nothing left to swallow, golden eyes lidded and heavy, head tilted back against the rough tree bark. His bones were weary, his flesh beaten and aching, but at last, he felt content, that he could drift away without being subjected to thirst, without being distracted by his needs.

He caught the slightest glimpse of hazel eyes before he surrendered to the sweet darkness of his mind.

Present Day

He had not expected to see her upon his return.

Perhaps that needed a rephrase: he hadn't expected to see her sitting there, on the sofa he frequented as a bed, his blanket thrown around her shoulders and wrapped around her curled form.

Erik quietly slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him softly. She was sleeping, again, and he had no wish to wake her. He remembered what had happened the last time he had tried to wake her—the frantic sobbing, the wild grabbing of his bandages, the haunted look reflected in clouded blue eyes. Thinking about it didn't bring the excruciating pain it once did; he only felt numbness, now. Numbness and emptiness.

He found it difficult to think that it had only happened this morning. It had seemed like an eternity ago.

Leaving the flat had been surprisingly easy after the recent events that had taken place. Christine's horrified face, the scream tearing from her throat as she dreamt about him was enough to drive him out of the door. All thoughts of his insecurity, the people who would stare at him faded away, replaced by the fresh image of his wife cowering in terror before him, tears streaking down her face as she tried to plead with him, apologies she didn't understand pouring from her perfect lips. The fear he had developed was replaced by sharp, stinging dismay, a pain more piercing than anything he had ever felt before. All he had known at that moment was that he needed to get away from her, and he needed to do it now.

As soon as he had stepped out of the flat, he was met with stares. Everyone openly gaped at his bandaged visage, his frazzled panting, his unkept hair. The coat he had thrown over his form was not fully buttoned but he pushed on, never pausing in his step as he surged forwards, determined to return to a place he knew didn't exist anymore.

Her arms, her lips, her hair caught in his mouth as she sighed against him. Never again would he feel her, touch her, be able to love her.

Her, his wife, the woman he fiercely and unshakeably loved with all his heart.

Christine.

The stares didn't matter anymore. None of them mattered to him. He walked forwards, unused to the cooler weather from his months there, even if it was nearing summer in Moscow. He felt vulnerable to everything, at that moment: to these open-mouthed people who gawked as he rushed past, to the breezy air he had once considered warm and now shivered in, to the memory of Christine catching a glimpse of his face, her hand clasped over her lips in horror, cobalt eyes wide and revolted.

She didn't love him—she couldn't. He knew that now, and he didn't blame her. How could she? His face was mangled, ruined by a man who was mad and sadistic in his power. He had returned to her bruised and broken, tender both physically and mentally, shutting her off when all she had wanted to do was help him. He remembered her eagerness to resume their easy relationship, her determination to heal his wounds, and he had disregarded her attempts.

But his wounds could not be closed, no matter what she tried to do. She had been presented with an impossible task upon his return, and with a sharp ache Erik knew that she had surely realised it by now.

Why bother trying to fix something that was eternally ruined?

He hadn't intended on returning that night—not when she was so clearly disgusted by him. He would only add fuel to her dreams—had already visited her nightmares. She surely wouldn't miss him if he were to stray for one night. It would be better if he was to leave her for now.

Or, maybe—would she be better off if he were to leave her for good? She would be able to focus on herself, with no need to care for her broken husband. His troubles would not be hers, anymore. She would be light, free—the angel he had known and fallen in love with once more.

Perhaps if he hadn't looked up, hadn't realised where his feet had taken him, he would have stayed away.

The empty alley hadn't changed since he had last visited it. The lonely lamppost still resided in the space, quiet and looming. The cobbled path was perhaps more worn out from the many boots that must have walked towards this area. He could almost imagine it: eager opera-goers, drawn into the mystical element of his angel's voice, entranced by her beauty and wanting to congratulate her for themselves. Their excited laughs, nervous thoughts, eager hands grasping hers and shaking firmly.

Enchanted by her as he had been three years ago.

The thudding of his heart had begun to slow as Erik approached the stage door. His thoughts were not frantic, now, his demeanour composed. There was nothing on his mind apart from the need to lay his palm against this door—this door that had revealed herself to him that first night at her stage debut, the door that shattered the barricades within his chest by showing him a smiling, breathless angel. He remembered her radiance as she soared on that stage, felt her joy as strongly as she did while he watched in that box, pristine and immaculate and starstruck.

That first night when he finally, devastatingly, learnt how to breathe.

Slowly, without hesitation, he lifted his hand, taking sure, steady steps towards the archway. The door was painted a dark brown, paint chipped at the edges, worn out from years of use. Resting his palm against the wood did not shake him, unravel him as he thought it would; rather, there was a long moment of silence, of utter stillness and contemplation.

This door, the one that had swung open to reveal her to him for the first time. This alley, where he had waited night after night just for the pleasure of walking her home. Her tentative smile, his instant infatuation.

It was at that moment, facing the door, hand pressed against chipped brown paint, that he realised it had been her, was her, would be her for as long as he would live.

Erik and Christine, Christine and Erik. One without the other was unimaginable.

And so he had turned and headed back to their home, shaken but determined, a man changed and yet, still madly in love.

The image of her now, curled up in his blankets and sleeping on his sofa, brought an ache of tenderness to his chest. Erik silently slipped off his cloak before approaching his sleeping wife, careful to ensure his steps were light lest he wake her. Her curls spilled across the fabric of the sofa, her fingers hidden beneath tightly clenched fists, unwilling to part from his coverlet. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing slightly ragged. Dried tear tracks littered the smooth skin of her face.

And as always, he felt himself melting at the sight of her. How could he consider leaving his beloved, his darling girl? She was everything to him—his saviour, his salvation, his mercy. He loved her with his entire being, and loved her even beyond that. There was no name to this feeling, this encompassing, breathless fervour that left him in a stupor, silent and dumbstruck by the magnificence of being able to witness the rise and fall of her chest.

It was then that he knew he could not leave her. If she refused to love him, did not love him anymore, he would accept it with a pierced heart and broken soul—but he would not leave. He did not have the strength to. Let her cringe with disgust at him; it was unfair to think that she would accept him when nobody else could. None of it mattered to him anymore. He would linger by her side for all eternity, and if she sent him away he would watch from the shadows until she took her last breath.

They were inexplicably, inevitably linked, and he could not, would not let her go.

Careful not to wake his wife, Erik bent and mindfully slipped his arms below her form and slowly lifted her from the couch.

Holding her once more in his arms was like finally feeling sunlight upon his skin after being confined underground for years. Her body was soft against his, her curves pressing to his in a manner that felt delicate, that felt right. She was warm, familiar. Home. She refused to part from his blanket, so he tucked it around her, resolving that he would find himself something else to act as a duvet. With quiet steps, he began to walk towards the bedroom, relishing in the way she curled against him, her fists lightly nudging at his chest, the warmth of her breath misting against his shoulder.

It was simple to maneuver through the door; a simple nudge from his foot and it relented, allowing him access. Quiet steps echoed in the room as he crossed to the bed, still holding her light, full body in his arms, relishing in the way she curled against him. With a tenderness that traced his bones, he laid her down, gentle and careful in his actions. It was only obvious that he would tuck the covers around her, ensuring that she was well wrapped within her cocoon of blankets—though a small part of him leapt with joy when she moaned and tugged his blanket tighter to her form despite the mound of blankets offered to her, refusing to let it go.

For a moment, he lingered in the room, desperately wanting to find something else to do for her. Fluffing her pillows, stroking her hair—anything. Any excuse to stay with her a moment longer.

It was when he finally let out a resigned sigh, turning to leave the room, when she had grabbed his hand.

"Stay?" a sleepy Christine mumbled, voice thick and heavy with sleep, honeyed and low.

And, turning back to face her once more, Erik felt his heart start to beat again.

A/N: Edited and looked over. It would be really nice if we could get to 82 reviews this time around..? I promise on my brothers that I'll try my very best to update next week!